


Toll the Silver Iterance

by PhoenixFalls



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Magical Artifacts, Semi-Clothed Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixFalls/pseuds/PhoenixFalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An artifact has taken away Helena's voice. Myka reminds her that their bodies have a language all their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toll the Silver Iterance

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt [HG/Myka: silence](http://femslash-kink.dreamwidth.org/10340.html?thread=1711972), on femslash_kink.
> 
> This fic takes place in that happy AU where Helena's still a Warehouse agent and she and Myka are in an established (and publicly acknowledged) relationship.
> 
> I do apologize if this is rougher than usual for me; I haven't done my typical editing, because I wanted to get it posted before the end of the year. If you notice anything terribly off, feel free to tell me in the comments, though I may not be in the right headspace to respond for a while.

The artifact was neutralized.

Claudia had done the honors, dumping the innocuous pen that had once belonged to a woman named Zelda Fitzgerald and had been sitting in the B&B’s front hall for the past week into a bag amidst the usual shower of sparks. Helena watched the neutralization with her own eyes. But though Claudia and Steve regained their voices the instant the pen disappeared from her sight – evidenced by Claudia’s delighted crow and Steve’s “Oh thank God” -- Helena and Myka were still silenced.

Helena grabbed the bag from Claudia’s hands and pulled the pen out to dump it again, to no effect. When she reached in to try once more (third time’s the charm and all) Myka stopped her.

Helena could see Myka’s lovely brain working, eyes distant and fingers tapping the seam of her pantsleg, and after a moment she gestured to Steve for the notepad they had all been communicating via while they hunted the artifact down. She scribbled for a moment, looked down at her watch and scribbled a bit more, then turned it so that they could all read it:

I THINK THE EFFECTS LASTS 38 HOURS, AND IF SO I’LL HAVE MY VOICE BACK IN ABOUT TWENTY MINUTES. 

Helena was about to grab the pad from Myka when Claudia put her question to voice. “What? Why? How does that make sense? It’s been neutralized!”

Myka flipped to a new sheet of paper. She wrote a couple words, then thought for a moment, scratched them out, and replaced them with:

I’LL EXPLAIN WHEN I GET MY VOICE BACK. LONG STORY.

The relief in the room at Myka’s surety was palpable, so Helena was unsurprised when Steve said, “Okay, I’ll go fill Artie, Leena, and Pete in, let them know that they can stop searching the Warehouse.” He turned to go, but Myka caught his eye for a moment, communicating something Helena couldn’t decipher. It became obvious a moment later, when he added a simple, “C’mon Claudia, keep me company.”

At another look from Myka, Claudia acquiesced gracefully. “Gimme a call on the farnsworth to let me know it’s worn off, ‘kay Myka?”

Myka nodded, then Claudia and Steve were gone, door slamming behind them with Claudia’s usual enthusiasm. Helena felt the need to move, and grabbed Myka’s hand to tow her into the lounge.

They settled side by side on the settee in their usual positions: Helena upright, hips and knees at ninety degree angles and feet flat on the floor; Myka curling into the arm, knees pulled to her chest and toes sliding under Helena’s thigh, despite all of Helena’s and Leena’s injunctions against shoes on the furniture.

Helena wondered if Myka was counting 38 hours from the moment they used the pen, or 38 hours from the beginning of their enforced silence. There was a difference between those moments – that was why it had taken so long to trace the silence back to that blasted pen – and try as she might, Helena could not remember exactly how big a difference it was.

Either way, she would be left in silence at least an hour beyond the moment Myka regained her voice.

Helena felt her knee begin to jiggle in impatience and frustration, and translated the impulse into movement again, standing and beginning to pace around the room.

Myka’s eyes followed her, heavy and knowing. Helena had spoken little of her time in bronze, but Myka saw things, saw Helena, the way few people ever bothered to. She knew what it was doing to Helena to be prevented from speaking.

Time passed at exactly the same rate it always did, slow though it might feel in the moment, and on the twenty-minute mark Myka cleared her throat.

“Zelda Fitzgerald was a writer from just after your time. You would have liked her; she was wild, didn’t let what was ladylike stop her from doing what she wanted. But her husband, he didn’t just steal her writing, like Charles stole yours; he locked her up in a sanitarium. She wrote a novel there. But when he saw she had used scenes from their marriage that he had planned to use in his own novel, he demanded she cut them out.

“Her book was a failure. Her husband’s books are considered American classics, and people blame her for his failures. It took thirty-eight years for a biographer to tell her side of the story.”

Helena heard the story, filed it away with all the other bits of trivia Myka gave her, but it didn’t help. She still couldn’t speak. And then Myka was in front of her, stopping Helena’s pacing and grabbing her hands. “I’m right here, Helena. You aren’t alone, you aren’t trapped, and you can still talk – with your hands if not your voice.” She brought Helena’s hands up to her mouth, kissed her fingers. Then she gave Helena a wicked grin. “Come upstairs and let me show you?”

Helena took a deep breath, forcing herself to loose her hold on Myka’s hands, then nodded.

Myka preceded Helena up the stairs, hips swaying saucily, long fingers trailing along the bannister the way Helena knew they would soon trail down her flesh, and Helena made herself focus on those things with the same intensity she had brought to bear on tracking down the pen. Focus calmed the racing of her heart, and by the time they reached the bedroom she could feel the beginnings of arousal, a hunger in her lips and hands and between her legs.

Myka closed the door, then leaned back against it. Helena stood in the middle of the room, nervous as she had not been since she was a virgin, throwing her virtue away (or so her parents told it) on a rakehell with a dashing grin and significant gambling debts. Helena had refused to be bound by his petty machinations, but she was happy to be bound now by Myka, by her faith and her love. By her trust, and if Myka could trust Helena after all that she had done, then Helena could trust Myka in this.

Myka was still watching Helena, eyes solemn despite the smile curling her lips. “Come here and kiss me.”

Helena fell on Myka like she was drowning, pressing into the space between Myka’s slightly spread legs with enough force that her back thumped the door, hands sliding up Myka’s throat and face to clutch her hair. They kissed messily for several long minutes, then Myka tilted her head back to suck in a gasping breath.

“You. . . you have no right to be so good at that.” Myka’s eyes had gone from warm to hot, black swallowing up the green even in the golden afternoon light. Helena found her smirk came easier than she would have expected. She leaned up to pull Myka down into another kiss, this time with more art and less desperation.

Helena concentrated on driving Myka wild, sucking Myka’s lips between hers, teasingly delving into her mouth with her tongue, scattering kisses with just a hint of teeth down her lovely long neck; she let Myka turn them and pull her back towards the bed, toppling them both down onto the covers.

Myka tried to pull back to say something else, but Helena was in her element now, could anticipate what Myka wanted without breaking the kiss. She pushed up onto her knees and elbows so that she could start working on their clothes.

Myka had dressed perfectly for this position. Helena was able to unbutton her blouse, flick open the front clasp of her bra, unbutton and push down her jeans and panties, all without pulling back from where even she had to admit she was mauling Myka’s beautiful throat.

She did have to pause to look when that was done, however; the image of Myka’s acres of creamy skin bared, her clothing spread around her like petals opening to the heart of a blossom, was one Helena wished desperately to imprint on her retinas, to see nothing but this from now on.

Myka smiled up at her. “God, Helena, the way you look at me. . .” She reached up, but instead of starting to undress Helena, Myka simply pulled her back down and spoke softly. “I want you to ravish me. To do all those things you like to whisper in my ear when I’m doing inventory or filling out my paperwork. I don’t want any toys or games, just the eloquence of your hands and your mouth on my skin. Can you do that for me Helena?”

Helena groaned, and though no sound came out she could tell that Myka felt the vibration of Helena’s throat against her skin because she shivered.

Helena kissed Myka’s collarbone, working her way slowly down towards her breast by alternately brushing feather-light kisses and sucking wetly. It was a warm day; Myka tasted of salt and faintly of fruit from her shower gel. Myka lifted her hands to pet Helena’s hair, teasing out strands to twirl around her fingers only to pull them when Helena did something she particularly liked.

When Helena reached Myka’s nipple and began to suckle Myka moaned; when Helena’s fingers slid into Myka’s cleft and began to stroke all of Myka’s muscles clenched, reaching for completion. But Helena was loathe to let this moment end so quickly and denied her, keeping her touch light, teasing, until Myka had lost control of any word but “Please.” Then and only then did she shimmy down and apply her lips to where they would do the most good, sucking hard on Myka’s clit even as she frigged Myka with three fingers.

In the afterglow, Helena crawled back up and nestled in the crook of Myka’s lax arm. She licked her lips, drawing out the moment, then gave her voice a try. It came out a little hoarse from disuse, but clearly audible. “Thank you, love.”

Myka beamed down at her. “My pleasure. Now, want me to see to yours as well?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Sonnet 21 in _Sonnets from the Portuguese_ by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. You can read the full text [here](http://poetry.about.com/od/poems/l/blebbrowninglove2.htm).
> 
> Also, I should probably note, Myka's opinion of the Fitzgeralds' marriage is not necessarily my own; I have not done enough research to have an opinion of my own, but I could imagine this being Myka's.


End file.
